Down the Mother Lode by Vivia Hemphill

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"Come, fellows," said Poker Bill, "if Bob's satisfied I reckon we oughtto be. Time to get into our biled shirts for the house warmin', anyway."

"Sorry to disappoint you, boys, but there won't be a house warming. Ibuilt it for them and they're gone. It'll stay locked till they comeagain. This old cabin is good enough for me."

So they left him. Bob relit his pipe and settled back on his bench. Oncehe roused a moment to mutter. "But they'd ought to know me better. Theyneedn't have run away from their best friend."

Soon after dark a pinto paced home through the quiet, mourning camp witha very weary bulldog at her heels. Beckey slid from her side saddle andcrept to Bob's open door. By the light of a full moon she could see thebig lax figure in an attitude of utter despair.

"Bob!"

"You! Girl, I thought you'd gone."

"I went because - because I thought you'd come after me. I'd triedeverything else that a woman can do to make you understand * * * He'sbegged me so many times to run off. When he understood, he was beastly.He put me off the horse and told me to walk, then. It was the dog whofought him, and then I ran for Pinto and came back." Her low voicefailed her, but she controlled herself, and went on, "I thought if Ipretended to go you'd see - "

"See! Girl, you've known ever since you came creeping into Snake Gulchthat night that you were the very heart and soul of me."

"Yes, yes," she sobbed, "that is not what I would have you know."

"You mean - no, I am a great fool. No woman could bring herself to - Aface like mine! Even if you did, it would be from gratitude. I could notpermit such a sacrifice," he finished, with a touch of pride.

The girl waited, then when he was silent she turned with a sob to go toher mother's cabin. The soft footfalls died away. Bob stood motionless.Suddenly a scream rang out on the still night air. Bulldoze scrambledoff the door-stone with a snarl of battle-rage and charged for thesound, but he was easily outdistanced by the huge miner, who ran withthe lithe grace of an Indian. In an incredibly short time the littleform was safe in his arms.

"Oh, there's a terrible animal in the mining ditch. I heard it! It'scoming this way! A grizzley, I know!" Bob peered into the ditch.

"Why, girl, it's only drunken old Solly Jake going home holding his jugout of the water. He gets into the ditch so he won't lose the way."

"But how does he know when to get out?"

"Well, when he bangs his head on the overbrace of the first flume, heknows he's home and crawls out." Bob began gently to withdraw his arms.

If you let me go now," she whispered, "I'll wish that it had been agrizzley."

"I must take you home."

'Oh, you have! I am home," clinging to him desperately, "I want no otherin the world than this one."

"But my scarred - "

The girl reached up, drawing down his tall, dark head in her arms. Shekissed his mutilated cheek, then pressed it tenderly against her soft,bare throat. It did not stay long, as Bob felt that such kisess shouldbe returned without delay.

"Hu-ray," cheered Solly Jake, waving his whisky jug, "tale ended right!Time f'r 'nother drink, boys!" and standing up to his middle in water heproceeded to demonstrate his idea.

Curley Coppers the Jack

VII

"On Selby Flat we live in style;We'll stay right here till we make our pile.We're sure to do it after a while,Then good-bye to Californy!"

-Canfield's "Diary of a Forty-Niner."

The beautiful Casino at Monte Carlo stands in one of the loveliestsettings on earth. Facing the blue Mediterranean and enhanced by theexquisitely kept marble villas of Monaco, it may justly be called theacme of gambling institutions. It has become an institution through theyears. Time has brought it stability.

Its absolute antithesis were the gambling dens of '49. Built over-night,destined to remain if the mines were rich, and to melt away if theypinched out, the gambling hells were sometimes the veriest makeshifts.Canvas covered, dirt floored, except for the dancing platform, roughred-wood bar and tables; surrounded by all the sordidness of Hurdy Gurdytown in which fortunes, and reputations, and lives were bid, andshuffled, and lost, as indiscriminately as grains of dust blown into theever-changing sea.

The thirst for gold is universal. In those half-mad days of deliriousseeking, the princeling rubbed sleeves with the scoundrel and the clod,and each man's ability was his only protection. Fortune played nofavorites. The tale is told of the judge who drove home in his coachthrough a shallow creek. Ruin faced him for the lack of a few thousanddollars. He took out his derringer and shot himself.

Not half an hour later a Chinaman crossed the creek under his polebetween two swinging baskets. He found a nugget there which brought himover $30,000.

This, then, is the tale of what Fortune did to Curly Gillmore.

* * * * *

"Whoop-ee! Ki-yi-ee hick-ee! Yi-ee-ee!"

"There comes Curly," said Teddy Karns," never altering the steady flowof the whiskey he was pouring into a tin cup for Sailor Jack to drink.

"Made a big strike, I hear."

"Yea-ah. About $25,000, they say. Might be a million, the way the femalecritters run," Ted laughed, as the hurdy-gurdy girls with shrieks oflaughter pounced upon the noisy newcomer.

"Sweet, she was, an' born to be good. Why, I remember (we came 'roundthe Horn on the same sailin' vessel) that they wasn't a ailin' baby onboard but what Allie could get a smile out of it, nor a sick soul thatdidn't bless 'er for 'er kindness an' care. Sick o' body, sick o' heart,Allie did for 'em all, bless 'er."

"She was happy, then," put in Babe.

"Yes. Comin' out to Californy to 'er lover, she were, all her folks backin the States bein' dead. She'd took care of 'er mother, last. 'Twas why'er man came on ahead. An' when she got here - "

"Aw-w, Bet, don't you cry," said Babe. "Y' see, when we got here, Curly,we found her boy'd been shot in a fight over a mine. Allie, she hadn'tno money left, and no gumption much, like Bet an' me, to fight her way,so we took 'er along o' us. We tried to keep her the little lady thatshe was, but - Well, we got snowed in last winter up on the divide an' -Faro Sam - Well, it broke her pure heart, an' most Bet's an' mine, too.An' she ain't never got over the cold she took, up there in the snow."

"Life's hard for a girl anyways you put it, an' she'll be happier overthe river where there ain't no cold nor sorrer. Bet! Aw-w, she'll sleepon a finer bed nor you an' I could give 'er, an' wake happy, withever'one she loved best around her. She's layin' there so white an'small an' still it'd most break your hear to see 'er. Like a littlesnowdrop you've picked, an' worn, an' slung away. So gentle - "

"Well, what's this, anyway? A wake?" broke in Faro Sam's icy voice. "DoI hire fiddlers to play a funeral dirge? Get on with you," scatteringthe girls in the direction of the card tables and the dancing platform."Which ones do you want, Curly?"

"Ghost," said Curly, "you take this around to Allie." It was a $50octagonal slug.

"Yessir."

"And you say that there's more, all she wants, where that comes from."

"Yessir."

Then, shaking his mop of brown, curly hair as though to relieve his headof a burden, he took the girls for what he felt was a much-needed roundof drinks.

By midnight the place was wild!

"Sam," shouted Curly, "what's the limit on your pesky old game?"

"The ceiling's the limit."

"Well, I'll put up one bet! Bein' on Easy Street I was goin' back to theStates to marry my girl, but I'm blamed if I don't put up my swag forone turn of the cards."

He sent for his "dust," and piled the long, buckskin bags criss-crossbefore Faro Sam's table.

"I'll copper the jack, gentlemen," he shouted. "All on the jack!"

Teddy Karn's face turned a pasty hue, and the tip of his tongue slidalong his puffed lips, but the lines of Faro Sam's face never changed,and his eyes retained the blank impassivity of a snake's as he slippedhis cards. There was a sudden, tense silence. The girls pressed forwardwith hurried breathing and the men waited, rigid as stones.

Somebody's mongrel paced to the middle of the platform and scratched forfleas, with soft thumping on the floor. That was all.

Suddenly a man swore! A woman's voice shrilled hysterically! Faro Samrose to his feet ceremoniously. "The house is yours."

One of the doors swung open quietly. Silence dropped once more, with thespeed of tropical night, upon the blare of the place.

The gambler's ghost stood there silhouetted against the light from a logfire outside. There were pink streaks down his dirty face, washed bytears, and his young shoulders drooped woefully. The dog came forwardand licked his twitching fingers.

"Allie is dead," he whispered.

"Curly, I should like to apply for the position of dealer over at yourplace, which yesterday was my place," said Faro Sam, next day at noon,meeting Curly on the street.

"Sure, you can have it, Sam. Too bad it's the custom for the house togo, too, when somebody breaks the bank. I've turned it over to GeorgeSpellman, with a thousand to start with. He and I come from the sameplace back in the States. Great friends we were, till we both got tosparkin' the same girl. When she took me, George, he got pretty ornery,but I guess he's all over it by this time. I'm goin' home to marry her,now.

"I've just been around to the tents seein' about little Allie's funeral,an' he'll keep on the girls, too. I'm pullin' my freight for Hangtown(Placerville). This town's a little too small for a fellow of my means."

Faro Sam looked after him with a cynical light in his narrow eyes.

"The pot bubbles loudest when the water's nearest the bottom," hemuttered, and turned to pick a fastidious way through the mud.

Life that night in the gambling hell went on much as usual. Teddy Karns"poured the rye," and Faro Sam "slipped the cards," whilst Babe worriedover Bouncing Bet's intoxicated condition.

"It's Allie, you know," Babe confided to Red Shirt Pete at midnight."She took it awful hard, and Spellman, the new boss, wouldn't let 'eroff tonight. I bin tellin' 'er Allie's better off, but she won't listento nobody. She's just bin pourin' 'em down all evenin'. What's that?" ata loud banging on the doors. Some one opened them and Curly rode intothe place on the handsome horse he had bought that morning.

"Well, boys, I'm cleaned! Tried to copper the jack in Hangtown and thewhole $50,000 went. George, I'll be askin' for this place back, Iguess."

"This place belongs to me, Curly Gillmore."

"Who says so?"

'This old lady says so," covering him with his pistol.

Curly laughed, not too musically. "Well, boys, what am I bid for thishorse? I need a grubstake."

"Play you for him," said Faro Sam, laconically.

"Done," said Curly. A moment later he laughed once more and swung downoff the Spanish thoroughbred. "He's yours. Well, good-night, boys."

No one answered. He had, like Hadji the beggar, become in twenty-fourhours again a drifter.

Babe sneaked out after him. "Here, Curly," she slipped her hand into herbosom and held out the octagonal slug. "When Bet an' I reached Allielast night she was holdin' it in her little dead hand, an' there wassuch a smile on her face! You gave her that happy smile. God bless youfor it! Now, you take this - "

But Curly turned away, blinking his eyes, and trying to swallow the lumpin his throat. Babe stood watching him through her tears as he trampeddown the street, out of the town on the road to the south.

* * * * *

Two years later in a hall in Sonora, a man strolled in to the cardtables.

"Why, hel-lo, Curly!"

Curly glanced up briefly. "Hello, George."

"Hear you've made another strike."

"You can hear a lot that ain't true. This happens to be."

"You know, I was telling - "

"Well, the sight of you don't put me in the mood to be told much." Therewas an imperceptible shifting of the crowd around the table. They weremoving away from Spellman.

Spellman wavered through the smoke haze, then dropped his pistol andfell slowly across the card table littered with shining cards and pokerchips. An overturned tallow-dip dropped in a pool of wine and rolleddown against the dead man's cheek, dabbling it with the color whichwould never return to it again.

* * * * *

"Bet, ain't that Curly Gillmore that we knew three years ago at Coloma,when Allie died?"

"Must be a-gittin' blind! Where?"

"The feller all dressed up an' walkin' with the lady. Sure it is! Hi,Curly, hel-lo! It's Babe. Well, ain't I glad - "

The woman with Curly fixed Babe with a stony glare. "If you wish toconverse with this ... woman, kindly do so when your wife is notaccompanying you," she said to him in an angry undertone, and wentmajestically on.

"I'll come back, Babe. We've been married just a month and she doesn'tunderstand. I'll be back later," and he hurried off.

"Bet, did you see who that was with Curly? His wife, he said."

"Aw-w, Babe, don't you fret! I guess we fill our little place out herein Californy near as much as some o' the fine ladies do."

"I didn't care. No, I was thinkin' that the ways o' the Lord arecuri-us. That lady used to be married to George Spellman."

"An' Curly shot him, down at Sonora, last year!"

"Ye-aw."

"Well, I'll be - ."

The Race of the Shoestring Gamblers

VIII

"Judge not too idly that our toils are mean,Though no new levies marshall on our green;Nor deem too rashly that our gains are small,Weighed with the prizes for which heroes fall."

- Bret Harte.

If dancing was the first form of amusement to emanate from prehistoricsavagery, then racing must surely have come next. It may possibly havecome first. However, we shall leave the "theorizin"' to be settled bythe lips of the first mummy whose centuries-old tissues shall be rousedto full life by modern science. What has science not achieved? We havegone beyond wonder. We can only believe, and become blase!

Meantime there is still enough red blood in the modern effeteproductions of humans to enjoy a contest of stress and strain, and brainand brawn, and to gamble upon the outcome.

In the '49 days, racing was one of the most popular forms of chance, andit often reverted in bizarre tangents. This, then, is what happened at agolden fiesta during the week of races:

"Sweet Lady, are all my importunities to be in vain?"

"I must confess that I can not bring my mind to a decision, Mr. Saul,"answered Mistress Patty Laughton, blushing and curtsying prettily.

"It is surely not for your lack of worldly goods that you hesitate,"persisted Slick-heels Saul. "As for what your father is owing me, itshall, at the moment of your acceptance, be wiped entirely from thebooks."

Patty was incensed at the hint of insolence in the gambler's allusion toher improvident father's financial condition.

"Believe me, Mr. Saul," she said, with spirit, "no ulterior motive forworldly advancement has the power to coerce my afflections."

"But you will consider my proposition of marriage?"

Patty's honest gaze encountered the appraising glint in the coot greyeyes of the foppish scape-grace before her. She lowered her own eysquickly to hid a hunted look in their dark depths as she answered:

"Sir, after the week of races, you shall have your answer."

"And then I shall give up my present means of gaining a livelihood, and,repairing to San Francisco, shall enter into a profession more fittingthe social station of the lady who is to become my wife." He boweddeeply and withdrew, leaving Patty with a sad face and tearfilled eyes.

At last she straightened her tall figure resolutely. "I must not giveway to tears. I can not! I will not! There must be some way to pay myfather's debts beside this extremity, to which death is almostpreferable. There is still a week's time. A week - only a week." Panicoverwhelmed her, and when someone gently took her hand, she cried aloudin terror.

"Why, Sweetheart, do I frighten you so? I waited long upon the mesa nearthe speed-track at the spot we had agreed upon, and when you did notcome I fared forth to meet you."

"Eric, it is Saul again. What can I do?"

"Dear, I have about $2000 which I am resolved to play on the races. Iwill win. I must. Old Irish Mike has brought over his whole stableful ofsaddle horses and I was raised in Kentucky. Do not despair, we shallbeat the gambler at his own game. Here is Mike, now. Perhaps - Mike,it's a fine string of horses you've picked up.

"It is so. Many a thoroughbred I've bought that came all the way fromKentucky or Missouri. All that had the stamina to get to Californy, theone thing left that many of the poor devils could sell when they reachedthe coast."

"Mike, some of them are faster than others, I suppose."

"'Tis what half the shoe-string gamblers in the camp have tried to findout. I may have me own opinion, but it's to meself I'll kape it tillafther the races are run. I will not spile sport. Have ye seen the lastcayuse that's bein' put in?

"You mean the cow pony that came in with the bunch of cattle from theNapa Valley yesterday?"

"The same. The auld boy, whilst in his cups, is bettin' she can beatanythin' on four legs, even jack rabbits an' antelope. The preciousgamblin' riff-raff are fillin' him up with tanglefoot, proper."

"Why, Mike?" Mike glanced at the silent girl and then down into thegulch below.

"Miss Patty, have ye visited the claims?"

"No, but I should like to."

"Come, then, if ye will so pleasure an old man. The men will not beworkin' tomorrow. They will be that pleased to show a lady how to wash apan o' dirt, they will be saltin' ivery pan wit' nuggets for ye! Eric,lad," he called back to the tall young man, "ye might look the cow horseover. She has not been curried for long; yet, whisper, beauty is butskin deep an' the finest rapier is often encased in a rusty scabbard."

"There is something going forward that Mike wishes me to see," thoughEric, as he hurried off to the livery stable. "That is why he took Pattyaway."

A crowd of gamblers were just putting up a pair of riders on two horses.

"Hey, Eric Tallman, you used to own this horse. Can he beat thisrat-tailed kyoodle that runs after steers?"

Eric laid a hand fondly on the magnificent black "half breed," who hadjust enough mustang to give him the stamina and spirit and wildnesscharacteristic of the Spanish-bred horse.

"Keep him on a steady rein and he'll beat anything in the mountains. I'dnever have sold him except - ." He sighed, turning to the cattle horse.She was long necked, long legged, long haired, wall-eyed, lean, andbadly in need of currying, and yet Irish Mike was no fool, and Mike knewEric's extremity - his and the girl's whom he loved.

He noted the deep, broad chest, the tapering barrel and the tremendousdriving power in the steel muscles of the hind quarters, but shedrooped, spiritless. He turned again to the satin-coated half-breed.

"Any dust up yet?"

"Ye-aw, about ten thousand. Old fool seems to be well heeled. We've got'im full to the eyes, down at String-halt Eddie's place, an' the boysare goin' to try the plugs out before they put up any more." Two trialraces were ridden and the sad cow horse was outrun with apparent ease.

The next morning as Patty went on her daily stroll to "take the air,"her way was blocked by a clamoring crowd of undesirables who werebaiting a miserable old cattle man.

"I tell ye, gentlemen, I was indisposed. 'Twas the liquor talking.Surely you would not take advantage of a poor old man and his honest,hard-working little mount. Every day of her life she works. Gentlemen, Ibeg you - "

"Begging will get you nothing better than a good drubbing, you filthycattle lout! If you don't pay up your bets, we'll take it out of yourhide. I, for one, have a special use for my money at the week's end."

It was Slick-heels Saul. Patty turned aside, sick at heart. This was thecreature in whose power she was "like to fall."

Upon her return she found the old cowboy sitting dejectedly under aliveoak bush. "Sir," she began timidly, "you are in trouble. I shouldlike to express my sympathy."

"Without doubt, without doubt, he is everything you mention. Could you,now, be Mistress Patty Laughton, of Kentucky?"

"Yes, sir."

"I knew your Grandfather Laughton, my child, and since I came here Ihave heard-of you," he finished, with innate delicacy. Indeed, who hadnot heard her story?

She opened her silken reticule and drew forth a small, buckskin bag."Will you not accept it?" Yesterday, at the claims, I panned it outmyself. I am sorry for your plight. I am sorry for anyone in theclutches of Slick-heels Saul."

"But - . Can you - ?"

"It does not matter. Your extremity is greater than mine."

He stood looking after the slim girl who carried her head so high. "Howlike a Kentucky Laughton. Thoroughbred stock, all!" He tossed the bag inhis hand. "'Tis why they are where they are today." Then his keen oldeyes softened. "And why they are what they are, today. Bless her tenderheart to stoop to an old cattle man in the mire. As for this - I mustsee Irish Mike," and he hurried off with surprising speed.

Bets rose. Every gambler had been apprised of the sure thing and flockedto the betting like bears to a honey tree.

"They do say that Slick-heels Saul is beginnin' to worry over the$20,000 he's staked. The shoestring gang have gathered in theinformation fr'm th' express agent that the auld cattle man owns a bigSpanish grant down in the valley, and has $50,00 to his credit incertificates of deposit from the express company. 'Tis as good as gold."

"The Indian can beat the Australian, but he thried to sell the boys out,an' if he slackens his gait by ever so little, the b'ys will beginshootin' sthraight before them. An' maybe afther the race, he'd betterbe runnin' right on into the next county."

"What next?"

"Next is a jackass fight, an' then, the race!"

After the billigerent jacks had been led away, Red Pete suddenly took tothe brush, accelerated by a fusillade of bullets.

"Welchin' his bets, he is, an' ivery man he owes is lettin' him haveit."

"Nary a hit!" wailed old Jack Horner. "The shootin' in this camp isa-gittin' vile! Time we was quittin so d - much pick handlin, an'a-practicin' up. It's a reflection on the community. Why, there ain'tbeen a Chinaman drilled with a bullet decent an' clean for weeks!"

"They're leading out the horses! Where did that little nigger jockeycome from? The mare's got more ginger today."

"Faith, an' I know more than you t'ink. Bear up, Asthore, the darkesthour is just forninst the dawn. Whisht, now! They're off!"

"Here they come! The black is ahead! See, the nigger is lying flat onthe mare's neck. She's closing up! Oh, they are neck and neck! I cannotlook. Eric - The black is getting the whip. Good horse! They are evenagain! Ah, it is only for a moment. The mare ... is over the line,first ... It is all ended, life, love, honor, happiness ... I cannotbelong to that man! My poor old father. Dear old ... for his sake, Imust. I - "

"Patty, girl."

"Eric, you are not to blame. You would wager on your own horse. 'Tis butnatural. I must accept my fate with what fortitude I can summon. Pleasetake me home. All the people staring. I cannot bear it long."

But when Slick-heels Saul pressed forward to her side at theboarding-house steps, she was as stately and cold as the snow-hoodedrocks of Granite Mountain.

"I have lost everything, but still I hold you to your promise."

"I made no promise, sir," she said haughtily.

"'But you will," he answered meaningly, "tomorrow."

"Stand aside!" thundered Eric.

"Come awn," soothed Irish Mike. "Not with the lady here, Eric, b'y."

"Patty, I cannot let you go! I will shoot the beast on sight."

"That would not vindicate my father's honor. Hush, he is coming. I mustremember that I am a Laughton."

Eric turned to stare moodily out the dusty window. "There goes thecattle man with his followers and his strong-box. What he must have won!Here comes Mike. In a hurry, too! I wonder - "

Slick-heels Saul was bowing before the girl.

"Forgive an auld Irishman for intrudin' upon so tender a scene - "(Slick-heels glared at him malevolently), "but I have he-e-re asomething for Mistress Patty Laughton," pretending to read theinscription on the package he held out, "from the auld boy, there, whois just leavin' us."

"'Bread cast upon the waters of sweet charity shall be returned anhundred fold. Blessed are the pure in heart for they are of the childrenof God,' he has written. Why, it is money!" gasped Patty, "and such alarge amount!"

"He had me put up ye'r little bag o' gold on his mare. These are y'erwinnings." Mike smiled inwardly at the sum of money. "Sure, auld Andymust have put a rock or two in the wee buckskin bag," he thought, butaloud he said , "I never spile sport, an' I could not tell ye before,but 'tis auld Andy Magee an' his famous racin' mare, the fastest quartermile horse bechune the state of Missouri and the Pacific ocean.

"'Tis the same game he's pulled on the gamblin' crooks all the way fromthe Oregon line to Mariposa in the south. Even gettin' filled wit'tanglefoot is part of the dodge. They cannot touch him an' the vaquerosprotect him fr'm the shootin'."

"But what about the tryout?"

"Also in the schame. The mare was cross-shod; meanin', two of her shoes,the near front, an' the off hind wans, were twice as heavy as the othersShe could not run top speed in th'm f'r love nor gold. Yesterday she wasshod in light racin' pads, an' under her own jockey. No horse on thecoast could catch her. An' always, the smart racin' gamblers play th'auld man for a fool. Such is often the end of greed.

"Which I wish to remark,And my language is plain,That for ways that are darkAnd for tricks that are vain,The heathen Chinee is peculiar,Which the same I would rise to explain."

- Bret Harte.

Certain learned archaeologists maintain that there are marked racialsimilarities between the American Indians and the Chinese - physicalcharacteristics dating from unknown centuries, when the widely sunderedcontinents were probably one.

However that may be, in the days of gold in California the greatestanimosity existed between the Indians and the Chinamen. The feelingbegan, presumably, through intermarriage and flourished like thecelebrated milkweed vine of the foothills, which has been known to grow- I quote a '49er, now dead, which is perhaps taking an advantage - 12inches in a day.

The tale is told of a Chinaman crossing a suspension footbridge, highover a winter torrent, from one part of a mining camp to another. AnIndian ran to meet him. John Chinaman started back as quickly as hecould on the swaying bridge. The faster Indian caught him, and, thoughminers on both shores sought to save the unfortunate "Chink" by a rainof bullets, it was too long range, and the Indian threw him to certaindeath in the river.

But the Indians did not always win, and this, then, is the tale of anencounter between Hop Sing and Digger Dan.

"In a game which held accountin',On an old Sierra mountain - "

* * * * *

"Whassa malla, to-o much nail-o ketchem clo'e (clothes)?" snorted HopSing, coming around to the side verandah with two pins in his hand, towhere Miss Jo Halstead was embroidering an antimacassar in brightworsteds.

"Oh, Sing, did you hurt your hand?" she cried.

"'Nother boy heap mad."

"Another boy? Aren't you doing the washing?"

"No do. Me - " but Jo had gone to the back yard. She found the tallestChinaman she had ever seen, meekly bending to the washing, and quicklyobeying the sharp orders rained upon his queue-circled poll by Hop Sing.

"But - Sing," protested Jo, stifling any sort of smile.

"Him no good! No got place! Me pay one-dollar-hop him stop one month,Chinee house. He no pay. Me makem work."

"Yes, but - what is that? Those are shots on the stage road over thehill! Oh, it must be another holdup! And Rand is shotgun messenger onthe stage today. Hark! Hear the horses running! They're coming - fast.They're trying to make the town!"

Six horses topped the long hill, pulling the huge rockaway stage. Theywere coming at full speed, and the near wheeler was dripping with blood.A dead man hung over the high dashboard, where his feet had caught whenhe fell.

Leaning far out over the team was a young man holding the reins in onehand, while he lashed the shot-crazed horses to their last ounce ofspeed with the fifteen-foot whip. His sawed-off shotgun lay on the seatbeside him. It was Rand!

"Oh, thank God!" moaned Joe, but in another moment, "Poor old SaltPeter! They must have killed him when he wouldn't stop. Sing - " but HopSing had vanished, leaving only his white apron across the wash bench.

As the stage thundered around the turn at the end of the main street,the wounded horse threw up his head, coughed bloody spume over thepointers (the second pair), and fell. Men were already scrambling ontotheir horses, and loping in from all directions. Rand cut out a buckskinleader, mounted, and dashed frantically back up the road followed by adozen horsemen.

"Rand, who was it?"

"I don't know, exactly. Thought I saw Digger Dan - " They were over thehill, and Jo heard no more.

Hop Sing did not turn up for supper, but his tall substitute did fairlywell, and Jo did not worry. Some time after dark, a weary Rand appeared.

"Well, Miss Jo, we got Digger Dan. At least we thought it was, but hewon't say a word except that he wants to see you. I've come to escortyou over to the jail. Will you trust yourself to me that far?"

"That far, yes," archly, "'tis but a short space." Not for worlds wouldshe have him guess her anxiety of the afternoon.

"I wish that 'twere for always."

"What can Digger Dan want of me," she evaded, thankful for the darknesswhich hid her blushes. "Rand, hear the wolves howling!"

"They are only coyotes, dear - Miss Joe, and afraid to venture into townexcept to the chicken roosts."

"Why, it's Hop Sing!" exclaimed Jo, upon first sight of the prisoner."They've cut off half his queue and braided his hair in two pig tails,and put different clothes on him, and he does look like an Indian. Howvery extraordinary!"

"Kethem Digger Dan cloe," blazed Sing.

"That's a likely tale," said the sheriff, "betcha he knows more aboutstage robbin' than he'll let out."

"I am sure he does not about this one. He was with me every moment."Nevertheless, she could not help remembering the substitute Chinamanwhom Sing had put in to do his washing. But, though the complex Orientalnature will never be quite understood by the Occidental, she hadconfidence in the loyalty of the Chinaman, who had served them for fiveyears, and whose life had once been saved by her father.

"Ah Sing, will you tell me what happened," she asked, knowing well thata command would only elicit a stolid "No savvey." Put as a favor, or aconfidence, he might respond.

"Me go home, all same Missie Joe?" Hop Sing raised an expressionlessface and glared at the broad belt of the sheriff.

"Well, you can go, but I'm going to keep an eye on you and see that yourapron's hanging in the Halstead's kitchen every day of your heathenlife."

Later that night when Rand started home, strange incantations were goingon in Sing's lean-to. In four china bowls punk was burning, and an oldChinaman was muttering weird invocations over the clothes of Digger Danslowly smouldering in a coal-oil can in the middle of the floor. HopSing held one hand in the smoke, raised the other aloft and made ablood-curdling oath of some sort which, by the expression of his face,probably consigned the owner forever more to the nethermost depths 'ofTophet.

"Why, where is Ali Sing?" asked Jo the next morning, when she found thetall slave still in the kitchen.

"He got heap sick cousin. He go way. I stay. He come back bime-by." Joknew that it was useless to question further.

The summer drifted by and still Sing did not return. Rand walked in oneday with the first flurry of snow, from his claim in the south. Hecaught both of Jo's hands in his without a word, kissed them tenderlyand let them go.

"Rand," she faltered, "it is so long since I've heard from you. You havebeen acting so strangely-for months!"

"Jo, have you not heard the talk that has been whispered with my nameever since Sing disappeared? They say that I know too much about theholdups; that I helped the Chinaman to escape; that Digger Dan and HopSing are one; that - "

"I would not listen to such falsehoods," cried the girl, her grey eyesflashing.

"You blessed little woman! But considering this, how can I say to youwhat - tell you that which glorifies the very life in my frame. How canI offer you a name tarnished by the suspicions of my fellow men?"

"Rand, I acknowledge no such allegations. Oh, I may be lost to all senseof womanly reserve, but - "

"When my name is cleared, I shall hope to enter Paradise. Till then Imust not. I cannot bring disgrace upon you. I shall return to my oldpost of shotgun messenger - "

"Rand! No! Listen to me one moment. Last evening Digger Dan came tothis very place. He told me that if you went back to the stage you wouldcertainly be killed. They have been robbing all summer. It is said thatJoaquin is in the mountains."

"No, they are Tom Bell's men."

Jo glanced up, startled. "Whoever it is, has sent you a warning."

"Miz Halstead," called a strident voice, "th' stage's jest in, an'you're paw's took awful sick up on the Middle Fork, at his mine."

"I shall have to go on the morning stage. Will you not please - " toRand.

"Jo, I do not fear death. It is dishonor that maddens me, for your sake.The snows have come. They are already fitting runners to the stages. Themails and the 'dust' must get through in spite of all. I go out on thefirst sleigh; this one you must take. This winter I shall vindicate myname, if it is humanly possible to do so." He kissed the end of one longcurl of her hair, and was gone.

Some weeks later, during a lull between storms, Rand's face lit up withthe feeling which but one woman in the world could inspire, as the stagepulled in to Middle Fork.

"Father is not quite recovered, but I thought it best to get him outbefore we were snowed in. Rand, Digger Dan came," she added, in awhisper; 'the stage will be stopped today. Yet, it is gathering for astorm. I dare not stay. What shall I do?"

"Come along. I will protect you."

Two miles further, as they topped a hill, Texas, the driver, pulled thelaboring six far to the side.

"Why?" asked Rand.

"Cut, there," answered Texas, "an' it's piled high with a drift."

"Look out for stumps."

"I've got 'em spotted," muttered Tex.

"What's that?" swinging his gun quickly to the right. The horsesplunged, snorting, quickly to the left, the sleigh hit a snow-coveredstump, and it was only Tex's expert driving that saved it fromoverturning.

"Some animal. I saw his hide." A hide Rand had seen, but it was thecoyote-skin coat of an Indian who had made one sign and instantlyvanished. Very quickly the dreaded halt came.

"Look out, Tex! There's a rifle barrel from behind that tree trunk."

"Halt!"

"Halt it is. There's nothing we can do." Was it Jo's presence in thestage below that made him give in without a struggle, or did he knowthat the Wells-Fargo box had vanished from under the driver's seat? Orwas it knowledge of the horde of yelling Indians which rose from thesnowy brush, and swooped down upon the shooting robbers? Four of themwere brought, in triumph, to the town on the stage.

"Where is the express box?" asked the sheriff.

"I do not know," answered Rand, defiantly.

"Cached away up on the mountain, I suppose, where the others are."

"Sir!" thundered Rand, "I have brought in, the bandits, as I promised,to clear my own namen - all but Digger Dan, who escaped. When I say thatI do not know what happened to the box, you will please understand that- "

"He go hell," remarked Sing, pleasantly. "He lun away to Oustamah(Indian village). Me ketchum. Alla squaw ketchern plenty tar on head,makern big cly (cry, Indian word for wake). Me killum him. Goo-bye, mego cookem velly fine dinner. Missie Jo, Massa Land, you get marry now.Me hope you ketchem plenty boy!" From his point of view what greaterblessing could he wish them? Later, he peeked in curiously from thekitchen, but, as kisses are not included in the Chinese curriculum, hefailed to be interested and returned to his baking.

The Barstow Lynching

X

"This is my story, sir; a trifle, indeed, I assure you.Much more, perchance, might be said - but I hold him of all men most lightlyWho swerves from the truth in his tale. No, thank youWell, since you are pressing,Perhaps I don't care if I do: you may give me the same,Jim - no sugar."

- Bret Harte.

Contests of every sort were the order of the day in '49. Any ferociousencounter which would promulgate betting was countenanced, and evenencouraged. There were dog fights, bull fights, bobcat or mountain lynxfights, and fights between game chickens.

The tale is even told of cootie fights during long, rainy winterevenings which must be spent indoors. The harborers of the contestantssimply reached under their shirts, drew forth a doughty grey-backedwarrior, placed him on a child's slate which was used as an arena, andthe fight was on.

A camp named Lousy Level is said to have made a specialty of this sortof battle. Thousands of dollars were sometimes bet upon the outcome.Arguments arising from various combats often developed into robbing,murdering and lynching. This, then, is the tale of a certain lynching.

* * * * *

"Step up, gents. Only a dollar to see the big fight. One little dollarto view the greatest contest of the age. See the champion fightingjackass of the state vanquish the biggest grizzly in the Sierramountains.

"The unconquerable battling jackass who has whipped two bulls down atSonora, and caused a mountain lion to turn tail. Step up, gents. Only adollar to get inside the ropes," and Webfoot Watson waved a well-kepthand toward the arena. It was a pine-staked palisade, bound around thetop with rawhide thongs. At one end, the "champion donk" was tethered,and at the other the "fiercest grizzly" was confined in a stout cage ofsolid planks.

"Step in, gents! There are logs and stumps to stand on. The show willbegin immediately. We are now loosing the lion-eating jack. He - "

"Hey!" roared Swipe-eye Weller, pointing to the laden trees outside theenclosure, "ef you think I'm agoin' to pay a dollar for this here showjest because I ain't no tree-climbin' animal, you're pickin' out thewrong customer. They coughs up a screamer apiece, or this act don'tbegin actin'. That's final!"

Nothing loath, Webfoot claimed the penalty from the crowd perched in thetrees, in some instances not without the aid of his six-shooter, and thejack was then turned loose in the palisade.

"He's eatin' grass," piped up old Grease-top Jamie. "Say, I can seetwenty jackasses eatin', down to the boardin' house at Blue Tent anyday, an' I don't have to pay no dollar, neither. Turn out ye'r baar!"

"Ye-aw. Lookin' fer protection. Hey, look at the donk landin' kicks on'is ribs. Ride 'im baar! Claw 'im up! Give 'im - " but the littlecinnamon bear reached the fence in three jumps, scaled it, and took tothe grease-wood thickets in record time in spite of the yells andbullets of the disgruntled spectators.

Webfoot had made even better time than the bear, and only the placidjack remained as a memento of the occasion. He was taken at the head ofa long procession of miners and made the occasion for a call upon thewhole round of fandango houses, and dispensaries of liquid rowdyism inthe camp.

"Partners, aren't you getting somewhat rough with the little fellow?"asked a young man in unimpeachable black broadcloth.

"Yes, thank you, my claim has turned out to be a rich one. What will youtake for the donk?"

"Help yourself. He's a maverick. What's that? Dog fight? Sic 'im,Rover!" and the fickle and drink-befuddled mob hurried off down thestreet to the newest excitement.

Anthony took half an apple from his pocket. "I was saving it fortomorrow, but do you think you could manage it, Little Pard?" The longears lifted at once, and the soft hairy muzzle took the delicacydaintily out of his fingers. Anthony petted him and sauntered on, intothe best of the gambling halls. He seated himself at a table presidedover by a woman dealer.

"Monsieur, it is not permitted zat ze gamblair shall play," she told himcourteously, with a flash of very beautiful white teeth.

"Ho! Ho! Barstow," roared Copper-down Hicks. "That's one on you! Themadam, here, sees your brand new togs and thinks you tickle the greencloth for a livin'."

"It is monsieur's toilette zat 'ave cause ze mistake. I have now betterobserve he's face. He is welcome."

Anthony turned. The donkey had followed him in, and was standing justbehind his chair, head hanging, ears lopping, lethargic patience showingin every contour of his shaggy body.

"I have consorted with many of his kind," said Anthony, smiling, "and Iprefer his frank sincerity, his bravery under stress, his worldly poise,his calm exterior, which does conceal the fiery depths of his nature; infact, all his so-called animal attributes I prefer, to the moresophisticated allure of his human gender." Anthony laid a strong hand onthe little beast's shoulder, while the French woman regarded himcuriously out of long black eyes.

"There, take that, you good for nothing cur," and a man kicked a dog inthrough the door, to lie in a twisted, bloody heap upon the floor.

"What do you mean, you brute!" called Anthony, springing upon the miner,who immediately closed with him. Mignon screamed, and ran to stop them.

"Monsieur, for why you do - ?"

"Aw, he got licked. I lost money on him."

"Yes, and you haven't paid me, neither. You shell out, you BuckeyePete!" spoke up a tall Kentuckian, with a mastiff on a leash.

"It wasn't a fair fight, Spotty Collins," whined Buckeye.

"It was - it was, so!" called a chorus of voices.

"I'll buy your dog," said Anthony. "That will pay your debts." Anthonyhanded the money to Collins, picked up the half dead dog, and, holdinghim against his immaculate new frilled shirt, he strode away toward hisclaim over the mountain. The jack, whose attitude had hair," neverchanged "by so much as the waving of a suddenly raised an alert headand as his benefactor vanished, he ambled quickly after him.

Pete sought to stop him at the door and in one lightning and concertedmovement, he bit and struck and kicked, scattering the crowd in alldirections. When the men watching Anthony down the street, burst intolaughter at the bizarre procession, the French girl silenced them withfierce, hissing syllables..

"Heh! Dude Anthony, beloved of the b - "

"Zose words you shall not call la petite hound an' me. Even name of adog is for such as you too good to be call'. Monsieur, we take pleasairein your departure from hence."

"Go on, please the lady, Buckeye. There's no other jackass to keep youhere any longer."

And Buckeye departed in a perfect indigo haze of profanity.

* * * * *

"Mignon, have you heard the news?"

"Non, Monsieur, I 'ave sleep all ze day."

"Spotty Collins was found in Blue Ravine this morning, robbed andmurdered. You see, he had a lot of money on him from the dog fight."

"But ze beeg hound?"

"He was shot, too."

"Ze murderer, zey 'ave caught?"

"Not yet. They say the sheriff's on his trail, though. He just got backfrom Sacramento and he went right out. By jinks, he's coming now! An'he's got 'im!"

"Mon Dieu! It is Monsieur Ant'ony!"

"No!"

"Oui! Heem, my woman's heart knows well."

"By jinks, you must be right! There's the fightin' jack followin' thehorses. Dude Anthony of all people!"

"It is not true! It cannot be!"

"Think I've got my man, boys. His clothes are covered with blood and themoney was in his cabin."

"I have just made a strike in my claim. That is my own money."

"Yes, of course, but the court thinks you oughtn't to keep it too long!"

"The 'court' is in his cups. He's sittin' over there in the plaza withhis back against the flag pole, an' he won't budge. You listen - .

"Judge, can I see you to your room for a few hours' sleep?"

"What for?" asked the judge, eyeing the questioner solemnly. "Is thereanything in the statutes of the State of California which forbids mypre-empting this small space on the highway? Is there any reason, if Iam so inclined, that I should not teach my fellow-citizens the greatmoral lesson of the overthrow and debasement of genius by the demon rum?Am I not better employed than if in a stifling, tobacco-perfumedcourtroom, beating law into the thick skull of a lawyer, who doesn'tknow Blackstone from white quartz? But, if you have four bits on you,and should ask me to join you - Ah, you have?"

"Well," said the sheriff to Anthony, after they had vanished into a nearbar, "I'll have to put you in the jug till court convenes."

* * * * *

Buckeye Pete was celebrating. He seemed to be suddenly flush with "dust"and was dispensing drinks with a liberality which soon brought him anumerous following. By midnight it was a well-mellowed assemblage.

"Mignon, how long have you been dealin'?"

"About tree, four mont', Monsieur."

"I don't mean here. I mean altogether."

"About six ye-ar, Monsieur."

"You must be well off by this time. An' they say that you've earned itall workin', and that you're straight. Say, I'll marry you, if you saythe word - "

"You say, they say, too much, Monsieur."

"Here! Don't you go givin' me no orders, you French crinoline fluff!"

"I ordair no man, an' no man is ordair me!" She stared him down with herglittering, black eyes, and returned to her dealing. Pete strolled out,followed by his satellites. When the noises in the street grew louder itcaused no particular comment. It was the usual thing. But when a crowdburst into the Royal Flush, Mignon sprang to her feet with a cry ofanguish.

"Sure' we would! Right out on the lynchin' tree." She turned and dashedfor the rear. "Ze sheriff! He must come toute suite!"

"Min," whispered Soft-soap Joe, the bartender, "he left two hours ago ona new case, otherwise they wouldn't a-dared do this."

"Mon Dieu! An' ze justice, he is intoxicate! Mother Marie, pray forhim," she cried, in her own language, and she ran after the lynchingparty.

Once she stopped, shaking with terror at what she took to be a grizzlyin the path. It was only the fighting donkey still following the masterwhom he had adopted. He made his way to the very center of the mob. TheFrench girl followed and, climbing onto a barrel, faced the crowd withflashing eyes.

"Consider what you do! The judgment of le bon Dieu will be upon you!"

"Aw! Choke her off! Pull her down, somebody."

But the three or four who tried to reach Mignon on her barrel next tothe bound man on the horse beneath the hanging tree, fell victim to the"greatest battling jack in the state."

"My friend," orated the old judge afterwards, in describing theseevents, "what mere man, however filled with tanglefoot, could face thewicked teeth, and hoofs, and kicks which had conquered wild Texas bulls,caused the mountain lion to cringe in his lair, and the invinciblegrizzly to flee across the Sierras?"

At any rate, the little donkey was everywhere at once, biting, striking,kicking, squealing, with the venom and speed and precision of arattlesnake, while Mignon railed, unmindful of Anthony's protests.

"Ze blood on hees clothes! Bah! You 'ave all see 'ow he is carry home lapetite so-hurt dog. Oui! ze dog of Monsieur Pete. Who is know whereMonsieur Collins is go for new dog fight? Monsieur Pete! Who has angerat Monsieur Ant'ony for because I, Mignon, 'ave look once again atMonsieur, who is so kind to all who I ave pain? Monsieur Pete! Who isinsult good girl? That's me. Monsieur Pete! Who is spend much moneytonight, who yesterday was br-r-oke? Monsieur Pete! Who, zen, should youswing on ze rope?"

She waited. There was absolute silence save for the crackle of theflaming pine-pitch torches.

"Ver' well,' 'in a low voice. "I, me, Mignon, shall answer." Again shepaused. A long way down the canyon she heard horses galloping on thehard road. "Monsieur Pete!" she screamed, at the top of her voice.

They hesitated, those in front pressing back from the certain deathwhich awaited them. Mignon set her arms akimbo, the gun gleaming at herhip, and taunted them in contemptuous French.

The horsemen had reached the camp and soon thundered into view. "What'sthis going on, anyway?" demanded the sheriff, angrily. "Anthony Barstowis innocent. These men can prove that they spent the night at Barstow'scabin. When I learned the truth, I came straight back. Buckeye Pete, youthrow up your hands! You're wanted for the murder of Spotty Collins."

Mignon tore the noose from Anthony's neck, laughing and crying in trueFrench abandon.

"By Salsifer!" he said, later on, "I'll have to swear that fighting jackin as a deputy sheriff, and set him to watchin' road agents confined inthe jail. Well, goodnight, all. Pete's locked up safe and sound."

An hour later a sober band of grim spectres returned to the jail,overpowered the guard, and, for the second time that night, took outgrisly fruit to hang on the lynching tree. There were no pine knots andno attempts at conversation till the leader asked: "Buckeye Pete, haveyou anything to say before you join your Maker?"

"Ain't no use prayin' for yourself," spoke up another voice. "Betterpray for the soul of the man you sent to Purgatory, and for thewell-bein' of the other innocent man you tried to destroy."

"What's that?"

"It's that fightin' jack, prowlin' 'round."

"Let 'im prowl! Now, then, boys, are you ready? Then pull!" and, as theold judge always told in conclusion, "they say, as the men gave a mightyheave on the rope the donkey ran forward and kicked the barrel fromunder the doomed man's feet!"